Winds
by dyingimmortal
Summary: The story of how Benjamin, the member of the Egyptian coven who can control the elements, was turned. Oneshot.


_I've always thought of human!Benjamin as a street thief (I believe it's due to Disney's Aladdin), but once I read "West" by __**princesswingnut**__, I couldn't think of Benjamin being turned in any way other than getting in trouble, saving himself with his "abilities," and then Amun noticing and saving him from the human trouble (and then turning him). So, yeah. Thanks to her for letting me use that idea. :) Go check out her stories (they're really awesome). And this is rated K+ for some mild(ly bad) language. Okay. Now, onwards~_

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If I got out of this mess alive, I was going to _kill_ Aswad.

He'd deserve it, the stupid bastard. He'd told me, time and time again, that "Harakhty is to be trusted, boy! And what would _you_ know about trustworthiness?" (Cue the disdainful sneer.) Of course. He was to be trusted, and look where _that_ got us. A one-way ticket to trouble.

"Harakhty." The very _name_ itself screamed, "Look at me! I am untrustworthy!" Harakhty was the disguise of Horus. _Disguise._ (That would've clued anyone _but_ Aswad in.) And while the British that occupied our country weren't exactly promoters of our ancient Egyptian culture, you'd really think Aswad would've known better.

He didn't trust me. Just because I was a teenage boy and a good thief (it was the only way I'd survived on the streets for so long), and I had a European name, he thought I was the spawn of the devil or something.

The only reason he kept me around, really, was because I was a good thief. According to Hasina, I was a handsome boy, and in a "cute" (I still shudder to think of that word pertaining to _me_) way, not a dark, tall, mysterious way… whatever that meant. (I would never understand girls' minds.) Apparently, the "cute" thing automatically meant I looked friendly and trustworthy to passersby, despite my status as a street urchin, and people wouldn't think to suspect me of snatching their coins.

It was what I'd been doing since I was four years old. I was good at it. I liked to believe it was practice, and not anything to do with my "cuteness" (which was completely nonexistent, by the way. Just to clarify).

Either way, whether it was cuteness (no) or practice (yes), I was a good thief, which was the only reason Aswad kept me around. But that didn't mean he _liked_ me.

Which was why he didn't believe me when I told him Harakhty was probably working for the British, something I'd _sensed_. He should've believed me.

And now Harakhty had sold us in for some coins, and all of us—Aswad, Hasina, Anat, Haji, Paki, Safiya, Sanura, and I—had been hauled off to be questioned by British soldiers, who were probably going to beat us to death or something, or torture us for information on the "revolution."

I honestly wanted no part of it. I didn't care if Great Britain ruled us, I didn't care if a pure-blooded Egyptian sultan ruled us, I didn't care if a one-eyed cat ruled us, I didn't care if God himself ruled us. As long as the people in general had things for me to steal, I was fine on the streets.

But apparently, the street gangs were widely suspected of being part of the revolutionary movement against the British Empire. Stupid, if you ask me. But that was what the officials thought.

The dumbest part was, we _weren't _planning on revolting or anything. (Just because a lot of _other_ people were…) But Harakhty had been desperate for money (stupid man couldn't steal candy from a baby… if he could've, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess), and he'd given the British officials our unofficial location for currency.

"Harakhty is to be trusted." Oh, sure. Maybe when pigs fly.

But then again, maybe pigs would fly one day. After all, there were pigs in officer's uniforms already… and they were interrogating us now, in a local police station.

Or, more specifically, they (some of them, anyway) were interrogating Hasina. She was the youngest girl (only fifteen) of our little motley group, and therefore the most vulnerable, in the officers' eyes. Idiots. They should've known better than to underestimate a girl; Hasina was more than capable with a dagger. And she had one hiding up her skirt.

The other officers stood nearby, glaring at us and trying to look intimidating. I'd never hated the British, but I was severely disliking them now. They were rather prejudiced, to think that street gang equaled revolutionary rebels. They were idiots.

Though I believe that fact was already established.

Speaking of idiots, Aswad was one. At least I could gloat over his being wrong about Harakhty… too bad I'd probably be incapacitated by then, or something to that extent.

Or maybe not. I'd always managed to pull myself out of scrapes before, when it looked like all hope was lost. When I was eight, I'd gotten caught on the banks of the Nile River during the annual flood, and even though I couldn't swim, I hadn't died. (My memory was a bit foggy about that event, so I wasn't entirely certain _how_ I'd escaped, but no matter; an escape was an escape.) When I was twelve, I'd been locked in a warehouse during a fire, and the fumes hadn't harmed me, somehow. I'd gotten out of that situation relatively unharmed, too.

The point was, I'd managed to get out of nearly-impossible-to-get-out-of bad situations before. Maybe this time wasn't going to be any different.

But I had others to look out for this time. Aswad, Hasina, Anat, Haji, Paki, Safiya, and Sanura. I didn't care for Aswad—he could go get himself exsanguinated for all I cared—but Hasina was my best friend. Haji was a good person to talk to, and Safiya and Sanura, twins, were too sweet to abandon. I couldn't just _leave_ them.

It wasn't likely these officials would just leave us alone, though, even if our answers to their questions proved satisfactory, up to par. I could tell the types of people they were—low-ranking, eager to prove themselves. They'd jump at the chance to kill some rebels for their Queen, or whoever their ruler was. (Street life didn't exactly provide one an education.) I could see it in the determined gleams in their eyes, the sets of their jaws, the projecting (likely false) confidence of their poses.

I glanced around the small, shabby room: one small window, not large enough to climb through (and I'd have to shatter the glass… it wasn't very comfortable climbing through a broken window with glass shards littered around you; I knew that from experience), and a narrow doorway, British officers on either side. And even more officers nearby, watching us carefully, their rifles (or whatever the weapons were… I preferred knives and fists, thank you; stupid advanced Europeans) ready.

It was a poor set-up—the door was partially exposed, and from this angle, any one of us could leap at an officer and cut out his throat before they could successfully fire at all of us—but effective enough. There was no way we could all escape with our lives intact, and kill all the officials.

And Hasina was still being interrogated.

Or not. She came skipping through the door, looking smug, for some odd reason. I soon saw why; the officers flanking her looked surly. Clearly, her answers hadn't exactly been incriminating evidence of our radical, revolutionary (and nonexistent) plans.

A nearby officer—he had blue eyes, something you didn't see often in this "godforsaken country," as I'd heard it being called once—looked over our little group, and then focused his gaze on me. Without a word, he strode over—I stiffened—and grabbed me by the shoulders, hauling me up from my seat. Hasina, who was approaching, squawked in indignation.

"Benjamin!" she called. I glanced at her, even as I was being dragged off for interrogation. "I know you have a 'strong sense of justice' or whatever you like to call it, but please, for the love of all things good and holy, do _not_ start yelling at the officers! Just give noncommittal answers, alright? Act disinterested in the 'revolution,' and say something good about Great Britain once in a while, and you'll be fine. Just keep your mouth mostly shut!"

She was taking a gamble, saying such things in front of the officers. I glanced at their faces—the ones who were paying attention to Hasina's little speech looked annoyed, frustrated, exasperated… but not gloating or jubilant or anything that indicated they'd understood the meaning of her words. Ah, so they_ didn't_ speak Arabic.

I was still going to have to yell at Hasina later, though, if we all survived this "interrogation," because that had still been a risk that nobody could afford to take.

And speaking of what she'd said…

I'll admit it freely; I do have a "strong sense of justice." It had gotten me in trouble many times in the past. If I saw a hungry child being punished for stealing an apple from a vendor's cart or something, for example, I couldn't just accept that life wasn't fair and move on. No, I had to try and defend the child, and then _I'd_ get in trouble too.

It was just in my nature to stand up for what I believed in. And now I was suppose to start waxing poetic about the British Queen or something, which I most definitely did not believe in?

That was going to be a lot harder than it sounded.

I was pushed through the doorway, down a hall, and into another room. This other room was larger than the last, despite the fact that there were less people in it. It was bare, though; there was only one chair, into which I was promptly shoved, and a large, high, open window in one wall. Blue Eyes closed the door with a resounding slam. The sound was disturbingly final.

"What is your name?"

I blinked, looking up in surprise. The voice had spoken fluidly in Arabic—_but of course, _a voice that sounded suspiciously like Anat (the voice of reason in our little group) whispered, _how else would they have questioned you? _

The voice belonged to a… man. He was clearly Egyptian, despite the deathly white pallor of his skin (though I could see an olive tone beneath it, like he was just blanching or something). Sunglasses covered his eyes.

That was understandable. Egypt's sun was cruel and relentless.

There was something… off, though, about this man. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew that he didn't… _feel_ right, like a normal human. Something told me that if I'd tried to steal from this man on the streets, he would be more than capable of noticing immediately and crushing my thieving hands into _powder_.

All in all, despite his rather relaxed pose, this man just _screamed_ "danger." All my senses went off at the very sight of him.

One of the officers said something in English to him, and he replied. I scowled a bit, not understanding the language, and took the time to study the room. It really _was_ bare—nothing but that open window.

It was just a tad too high for me to escape from, though. And the doors were blocked by the officers.

You couldn't blame me for trying.

The creepy man and the officers stopped conversing in English, and Creepy Man turned back to me. "Boy, I was speaking to you. What is your name?"

_Lielielielielie_, I chanted silently. "Benjamin," I said, not silently.

I wasn't a very good liar.

"European name, hm?" Creepy Man mused. "Yet you're involved in this… revolutionary gang."

"We are not a revolutionary gang," I protested.

"Then what would you call yourselves?"

"We… live on the streets," I muttered. "We stick together to stay alive."

"That's not what Harakhty told me," Creepy Man said.

I ground my teeth together. Harakhty. It was a stupid name, too. Stupid name, stupid man. Stupid, incompetent man. "Well, he's _wrong_."

"Harakhty is one of my… personal assistants. He's worked for me for many years; he would not lie to me."

"So you sent him to spy on us?" I spat.

Creepy Man smiled languidly. "Is there something to spy on?"

"Of course not," I backtracked. _Don't say too much, Benjamin, _I cautioned myself_._ "I just mean… you work for the British? But… you're Egyptian!" What a transparent attempt to divert the attention from the last question I'd just been asked.

"Excellent observation," Creepy Man said. I did not appreciate his sarcasm; nor did I appreciate the fact that he probably recognized my last statement as an attempt to divert attention. From the last question I'd just been asked. "I must stay in favor with the government, you see."

"So you're… you're _working_ for them?"

"It would appear so. Do you believe that we as Egyptians should _not_ serve our country?"

"But it's not _our_ country anymore—it's Great Britain's!" I exclaimed. "And you're working for _the_—"

I cut myself off abruptly, horrified. I hadn't really meant it _that_ way; I really didn't mind (… too much) who ruled our country. But those words had sounded a lot like the words of every rebel, every revolutionary there ever had been.

Good job, Benjamin. Very excellent job.

"That's all I need to hear," Creepy Man said, and then he turned to the officers still in the room, who were alert and ready for any sign of… danger, I suppose, and said something in English.

It was a short comment, to-the-point, and I could pretty much surmise what it meant: Kill him. He's guilty. He confessed. He's a rebel. He's involved in the revolution. Something along those lines.

Blue Eyes came at me, unsheathing a goddamned _sword_. Why weren't they using their rifles, or whatever? I'd heard those were less painful, though perhaps the person who'd told me that (Paki) was wrong. But still…

"Don't move," Blue Eyes said, in choppy, rough Arabic. He was even closer now, and steadily walking closer, that stupid sword still pointed at me.

I panicked. I jumped right out of that chair and turned to run, but in one instant, Creepy Man grabbed me by the arm. He was surprisingly strong for a man that short. (He wasn't _short_, exactly… he just wasn't tall. Average height, really.) And cold, too. His hands were _freezing_, and I had to wonder how he'd achieved that in _Egypt_. And the sword was still coming at me…

A sudden wind gusted through the room. And when I say gusted, I _mean_ gusted. It wasn't just a light breeze, or even the type of wind that sent your hat blowing off your head and through a random shopkeeper's window; no, it was one of those very strong winds, the kind that could uproot houses and send arrows clear through trees. That sword clattered right out of Blue Eyes's hands, and he didn't care, because he was too busy falling over onto the ground himself. I would have laughed if the situation weren't so dire.

Surprisingly, I did not fall over myself. Perhaps that was because Creepy Man—whatever his name was—was still holding onto my arm. He was standing upright himself, perfectly unaffected by the wind.

That was very strange.

It also meant that, if that very convenient _wind_ couldn't knock him down, then there was no way I could escape his grasp.

The wind died down immediately, which was even stranger, but I wasn't complaining. Then again, maybe I should… it was only delaying my inevitable death.

Blue Eyes stumbled to his feet again, his hands reaching for his sword. Beyond him, other officers pushed themselves off the ground as well; they'd also fallen with the wind.

I couldn't do anything but struggle; Creepy Man still had a tight hold on my arm, and apparently, I wasn't strong enough to break free. Great, Benjamin; this was just great. The flood didn't kill you, the fire didn't kill you… death by inability to shut the hell up. Way to go.

The sword came at me again. I flinched—it was an instinctive reaction—and then my short, dark hair was whipped around my face as another strong gust of wind blew right through the room. I heard another clatter; Blue Eyes's sword had plummeted to the ground again. My eyes, which had closed without really meaning to, opened again.

Creepy Man was staring at me with a slight frown on his face. Was that… fascination? Intrigue? Interest? A combination of the three?

Whatever it was, it was very creepy. I didn't like it. I thought I saw his lips moving, too, but I didn't hear anything.

The wind stopped, just as abruptly as it had come. Blue Eyes was still on the floor, grumbling. He was probably cursing in English.

Creepy Man said something. (In English, just to clarify.) Whatever he said, it shocked Blue Eyes greatly. He jumped from the floor and started shouting. Still in English.

Creepy Man's voice grew cold, and I could just _tell_ his eyes were going dark, behind his sunglasses. He voice lowered, sounding threatening. He continued speaking at a very rapid pace.

Blue Eyes blanched visibly. There was some more English conversation, and then he huffed, sheathed his sword, and strode towards the door, yanking it open and practically stomping out. He was probably pouting, like a petulant child.

I stared after his retreating figure with wide eyes. He hadn't… it couldn't be… but it_ was_. That English conversation… what had happened? Why was I free to go, all of a sudden?

Then I was wary, suspicious. This had to be a trick. They were still going to kill me. Or torture me for more "information."

Creepy Man did not let go of my arm the entire time. He was probably afraid I was going to bolt. He'd be right, and that was unfortunate, because I would have bolted, if not for his hand on my arm, keeping me in place.

"Come," he said, jerkily, and then he dragged me out of that room.

Out of that room, as well as down the hallway, down another hallway, out of the _building_, down a few _streets_… the whole time, he did not let go of my arm, and he stayed in the shadows of the buildings.

I was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this.

I asked him, a few times along the way, where we were going, and why. I received no responses at all. Not even a grunt, or nod, or any form of acknowledgment, saying that he knew I was still alive, and being dragged along with him.

I felt annoyed by this, but I eventually gave up on trying to speak to him. Or pull myself out of his grip; I'd tried exactly 29 times and failed each time.

After what felt like forever (probably because of the oppressive silence… due to the lack of our conversation, though; there were still people out on the streets, talking and everything), we reached the part of the city slums where there weren't any living people. That is, sometimes people came here, but nobody _lived_ here. It was the place where robbers and the like sometimes went, but not to live.

I'd been here quite often. It was a place to swap stolen goods in exchange for necessities or currency.

What was a person like Creepy Man—a British lackey, probably rich, if his neatly pressed clothes were anything to go by—doing here?

He practically pushed me into a small, cleared off area at the end of one deserted alley, filled with abandoned, empty sacks. Then, he took a little while making sure the mouth of the alley was blocked. Then, Creepy Man looked at me, sizing me up, and _then_ he took off his sunglasses.

My stomach dropped to the bottom of my feet. His eyes were _red_. A deep, burgundy red.

I'd heard stories before. The monsters of the night, they will get you. Stories just to scare children into behaving, I'd thought.

The monsters in the stories had red eyes.

This was not good. This was not good at _all_.

And there was nowhere to run, too. (The mouth of the alley was blocked, the stones of the buildings on either side of me were too crumbling and old to attempt to climb, and if Creepy Man—or rather, Creepy Monster—was, well, just that, a monster, then there was no hope for me at all.)

I would have preferred death by sword. (Or death by inability to shut the hell up, if you really want to go into specifics.)

As I was thinking these thoughts, Creepy Man/Monster walked up towards me.

"This will only take a few days, and then we can see how your apparent ability manifests," he said, and before I could ask him what the hell he was talking about, he grabbed my arm, jerked it up towards his mouth, and _bit_ me.

It stung.

"Ow!" I yelped, jerking my hand away like he was a rabid dog. (And I suppose it was possible he was… rabid, that is. Not a dog. He was clearly not a dog.) "What the… why did you just _do_ that?"

"An expected reaction," Creepy (I decided to omit the Man/Monster part now) said, looking satisfied, for some reason. "You may want to reconsider what you think of as pain, though, if you thought that hurt."

"You just… you _bit_ me!" I stared at my arm, only capable of stating the obvious. On my arm, there were teeth marks. Bite marks. "You're _crazy_—"

The next jolt of pain was much worse. I fell to the ground at the force—or shock?—of it. I'd felt pain before in my life—living on the streets, it's a very real possibility—but nothing like _this_—

Another jolt of pain, more forceful than the last two combined. It hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_. Hell, I'd gotten _whipped_ before once, by an irate vendor for stealing a piece of fruit off his cart, but that was absolutely _nothing_ compared to this. Getting whipped was biting the inside of your cheek too hard, compared to this. This… this was absolute torture, this was like getting run over by horses and stabbed by a thousand white-hot knives and swallowing poison all at once, times a thousand times a thousand times a thousand times a thousand—

And then the pain engulfed me, and I couldn't think anymore.

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_Sorry if I made Amun OOC. Or Benjamin, for that matter. Ha. I tried my best. (I absolutely loved writing this; Benjamin is just so awesome. I may have to do more in his perspective.) This is set sometime in 1919, by the way. (I think.) If you can't tell. When the British ruled Egypt, I believe. I've never learned about the Egyptian Revolution of 1919 or anything, either, in history class (just ancient Egypt) or whatever, so feel free to correct any historical inaccuracies you see. Reviews are greatly appreciated._


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